


this is our garden

by selkiepunk (TheRatava)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Flowers, Fluff, Light Angst, Multi, POV Second Person, Polyamory, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Team as Family, in this case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-19 00:57:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11302443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRatava/pseuds/selkiepunk
Summary: everyone in the world is born with a flower, unknown to them until they meet their soulmate. when a person is wounded, their wounds are reflected across their flower mate's body in the form of their flower. modern botanists count for nearly half a billion flowering plants that exist today, all which bloom brilliantly on at least one person in the world destined for love.vox machina only cares about seven of them.





	this is our garden

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this about a year ago and posted it on tumblr, and it has like 750 notes so idk why i didnt think to put it on ao3 until now but i SHOULDVE because i love it and yall deserve to read it

Your name is Vax’ildan, you are fourteen years old, and when you look in the mirror and see hyacinths blooming across your face and arms like bruises white hot rage boils within you. One day you fear flowers will grow along the inside of your throat and you’ll choke to death. 

When you cough up blue petals for the first time you decide to steal yourself and your sister away from your father’s home, finally.

 

Your name is Vex’ahlia, you are twenty-seven years old, and when honeysuckle sprout from your knuckles and palms you find it hard to sleep, knowing that Percy is still in his workshop. 

Sometimes, in the middle of a fight, you taste something sweet in your mouth and you know that he’s worrying away at the inside of his cheek. It’s a bad habit that he’ll need to break, eventually, but for now you’re fine with chewing on the petals.

 

Your name is Pike, you are forty years old, and wonder if the people you love feel daisies infesting their hearts. You wonder if when you’re away they find it hard to concentrate with the flowers filling in cracks to mirror your breaking, aching heart. 

You swallow your fears and reason with yourself, because no matter how real your pain feels, it is only a feeling. 

But you can’t help but wonder if the flowers that bisected their bodies while yours was ripped in half left scars, if they still tickle warm, living skin. You touch your own scars, just to remember that they’re there, and you go back to letting your heart break over the flowers that crown your head and circle your chest, crawling down your arms and legs.

You can’t feel their pain but it hurts all the same.

 

Your name is Grog, you don’t know how old you are, and you think flowers are pretty but this is really getting out of hand. Your family says that your flowers are amaranth, and you like the color the long ropes take. 

You’re the only one who bares your arms, so everyone’s always keeping a special look out for you to see if anyone else is hurt. You don’t mind helping, even if it means you get hurt a bit more. You’d rather it be you than them. The only problem is that there’s just so goddamn many of them! So many! Too many! Everyone needs to stop getting hurt! That’s your job so that they don’t have to, and not having to see flowers on your body makes it so worth it.

Plus it’s kind of cool to pluck the amaranths from everyone’s hands and faces after a battle. 

 

Your name is Keyleth, you are ten years old, and you think flowers are really, _really_  pretty. You love picking the petals from your shoulders and stomach, or just staring at all the bright, vivid colors. Six different types of flowers, all beautiful and lovely. It took a while for you to figure out that, no, your soul mate was not changing, you just had more than one. Although sometimes, it does worry you (and worry others, but what do you care?) that your flowers are more than one type, and how frequently they appear. In fact, you are nearly never not without flowers.

That last bit upsets you a bit. Well, it upsets you a lot. But you can’t wait to meet your flower mates! You can’t wait to find out what your flower is! You hope it’s something green or gold, something rich in color and happy looking. You hope your flowers make your soul mates smile, and you hope that when you finally meet them, their flowers will grow less frequently.

You’ll miss the colorful flowers contrasting your dark skin, but you’ll probably like you soul mates much better. 

 

Your name is Percy, you are eighteen years old, and the bruises and contusions that mark your body can never fully be hidden underneath flowers, no matter how many there are.

When you can help it, you keep the flowers on you for as long as you can help it. So long until they wilt and fall off or new wounds replace the old. 

Sometimes, the only thing keeping you sane on this damn journey overseas is the hyacinth on your inner arms. The black pansies on your fingertips help you sleep. You rarely see daisies, but they fill you will a bittersweet, bright warmth. The amaranths…everywhere are a constant reminder that no matter what, you’re not _alone_ , not yet, anyway. The purple roses that callous your hands make you wonder what weapon that particular flower mate uses. Or an instrument, maybe?

The multi-colored carnations that crawl from the soles of your feet to your calves make you wonder why that particular soulmate never puts on shoes.

 

Your name is Scanlan, you are _really fucking old_ , and you used to be in search of something small and sweet to settle into your heart. When you finally find it, you find several, actually.

It’s fun to finally be able to pin a flower to a face, after all those years of being alone with your thoughts and your petals. For the years to come, you keep careful watch over the hyacinth on your arms and make sure Vex is remembering to use her archer bracer. The amaranth that crown your head are a reminder that Grog is _so endearingly idiotic and self-sacrificial._

The black pansies will never not scare you, because you never know what Vax is getting himself into and before you know it he’s shouting Jenga. (And true to its name, everything proceeds to fall to shit.)

You come to understand and see that soul mate doesn’t necessarily have a romantic connotation, _thankfully_. But for you? It sure as hell does. You’re in love with all these people, all these stupid flowers that plagued your life were a blessing and a sign to keep going. You’ve been through hell and back all for a chance to meet these people and like hell you’re giving them up now. 

And _fuck yes_ , you _knew_  your flower was a rose! 

 

Your name is Vox Machina, you are only a few years old, and you are the most beautiful goddamn bouquet the world has ever seen. 


End file.
